Selene dreamed of chains breaking.

Not snapping—not shattering in violence—but loosening, link by ancient link, with the slow inevitability of time finally claiming its due. In the dream, the sound was almost gentle: metal sighing as it released a burden it had grown tired of holding.

The chains were old.

Older than kingdoms. Older than the words used to justify them.

They were etched with vows spoken by mouths long turned to dust, vows meant to bind not flesh, but will. And ...